


Night Hawks

by OzQueen



Category: Baby-Sitters Club - Ann M. Martin, White Collar
Genre: Bickering, Chocolate Box Treat, Crossover, Flirting, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 07:42:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13677285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/pseuds/OzQueen
Summary: "You know what I mean," she said. "You can nail the technique but can you really call yourself an artist if all you're doing is following rules all the time, just to make it look a certain way?""Has Peter not mentioned to you how many rules I've broken?" Neal asked.





	Night Hawks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isquinnabel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isquinnabel/gifts).



* * *

 

"We got the bad guy," Neal said.

"But you did it the _wrong way_ ," Peter insisted. "Like you always do! Just when I think you've learned your lesson…" He let a sigh overtake his words, and they stood in silence and watched each floor light up as the elevator crawled its way downwards.

"Do they make these things slower on Friday evenings?" Neal asked.

Peter didn't crack a smile — just looked at his watch impatiently. "Are you going to stay out of trouble this weekend? Is that too much to ask?"

"I'm offended."

"I want you in here first thing on Monday morning to start going through that evidence," Peter said. "If we've missed something, and you've sunk this case because of your inability to follow direction…" He left the threat hanging.

"He's already tried to cut a deal," Neal said.

"Yeah, cut a deal," Peter muttered. "He's going to try and take the fall and the rest of the operation will go to hell because you thought you could handle it alone."

"You're overreacting," Neal said. "You're only upset because you forgot to buy Elizabeth a Valentine's Day present."

"I sent her flowers," Peter said, though Neal wasn't sure if it was a tone of smugness or despair he could hear in his voice. Then, to twist the knife back in Neal's direction, "Enjoy spending Valentine's Day with Mozzie."

Neal, feeling petty, would have attempted to volley something back, but something better happened instead — Peter stepped off the elevator, darted around the janitor's cart already pushing through the open doors, and immediately collided with someone at the bottom of the stairs.

The sound of wooden paintbrush handles clattering over the floor sent a familiar shiver up Neal's spine.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Peter was saying, trying to steady whomever he'd knocked down.

"I'm okay," she gasped, combing an impressive amount of silky black hair out of her face. "Hey! Peter!"

"Claud!" His face lit up and he grinned.

"Way to knock me on my ass," she said.

The grin faded. "Sorry." He grabbed handfuls of paintbrushes and pencils. "You carry these everywhere?"

"I came here from class," she said, multicolored bangles rattling and clinking on her wrists as she gathered everything up.

"Here, let me help," Neal offered, but Peter shooed him back.

"Are you here doing sketches?" he asked.

"Yeah," Claud answered distractedly, shoving paintbrushes into the deep pockets of her bright red coat. "Some creepy guy on the subway who keeps flashing people."

"Gonna catch him?" Peter asked.

She grinned at him. "That's _your_ job, Pete — I've done mine. Good luck though, he looks like any other creepy Joe Schmo you see down there." She glanced sideways at Neal, and he took his chance.

"Hi," he said. "Neal Caffrey." He held his hand out.

"Ohh," Claud said. " _You're_ Neal Caffrey."

Neal let his hand drop. "What did you tell her?" he asked Peter.

"The truth," Peter said flatly. "I have go to, I'm late for dinner. Can I drop you somewhere?"

"No thanks," Neal said.

"I wasn't talking to _you_."

"No, thanks," Claud said, smiling at him. "Have a nice weekend. Say hi to El for me. We should have lunch one of these days."

"We should." Peter gave her a hasty kiss on the cheek, shot another exasperated look at Neal, and hurried off.

"So what'd you do this time?" she asked, straightening up and adjusting her bag over her shoulder. Paintbrushes and pencils clicked together in her pockets.

"What exactly has he said about me?" Neal asked, miffed that his chances appeared blown before he'd even said anything.

"No, I'm kidding." She smiled. "He likes you. _Admires_ you, but don't tell him I said that."

"I will absolutely tell him you said that," Neal said, quickening his step so he could shuffle through the same section of the rotating doors as her. "How do you know Peter?"

"Uh, through El," she said, checking her pockets. "My friend Mary Anne works with her."

"Oh, I know Mary Anne," Neal said, remembering a petite brunette who had blushed whenever he'd smiled at her.

"Oh yeah?"

"Hey do you have anywhere to be?" Neal asked.

"Me?" She looked at him in surprise.

"It's Friday evening," Neal said, putting on his best smile. "We could grab dinner. You could tell me why you carry a million paintbrushes in your pockets."

She gave a short laugh and turned red. "Uh," she said.

"Unless — I mean, it's Valentine's weekend," Neal said, giving her an easy way out. "You probably have plans…"

"No," she said, shifting her weight. Her next question was excruciatingly blunt. "You're the art forger, aren't you?"

"I was never arrested for that," Neal said, but his stomach sank.

"Relax, it's not like I'm a cop." She reached over and took one of her paintbrushes out of Neal's hands — he hadn't realized he'd been holding it. "Dinner would be nice," she said.

 

* * *

 

Even Neal's charm couldn't break the sacred Valentine's dinner bookings, which appeared to have locked down every table in the city, so he suggested takeout and a bottle of wine at his place. He could see Claud thinking about saying no, but he also knew whatever Peter had said about him had set some kind of curiosity burning inside her.

"We could talk about art," he said, sweetening the deal. "I'd love to see some of your stuff."

"It's just sketches and stupid profiles in here," she said, tucking her sketchpad under her arm — but she didn't protest any further.

"Is your name really Claud?" Neal asked, leading her through the door into his apartment.

"Claudia," she clarified.

"Claudia…?"

"Kishi. It's Japanese."

All of her paintbrushes fell out again as soon as she took her coat off, and she laughed and dropped to her knees to gather them up. Neal knelt opposite her to help. He had been sneaking glances at her all night, but he couldn't remember meeting her before, nor could he remember Peter talking about her.

She was pretty — not as young as she looked, either; she was closer to his age than he'd first thought. She had ink stains around her fingernails and he'd thought at one point he'd spotted yellow acrylic paint in her hair, though it was such an impressive, constantly-moving curtain it was hard to tell.

"Did you do this?" she asked, pointing at the easel in front of the window. "This is _Nighthawk_ s."

"Yes," Neal said.

"I love this piece." She stood in front of it, inspecting it as Neal uncorked a bottle of Chateau du Munn. "You've imitated it perfectly," she said.

"Thanks." He handed her a glass of wine.

"Do you have anything original here?"

"Sure, I have a few sketchbooks lying around," he said.

"But look what you can do," she said, gesturing to the painting again. "Painting light like that? Painting _anything_ like that."

"Let me see yours?" Neal asked.

She folded her arms and watched as he spread her work out across his dining table.

"This is great," he said. And it was — he didn't need to butter her up or tell white lies. She clearly knew what she was doing. Everything was bright and evocative and strong — her charcoal sketches were deft and confident. There were pages of pencil and ink, portraits of people on the subway or in the park. He stopped sometimes, and just stared — an old man feeding pigeons; a petite woman gazing up at towering bookshelves; another with cascading blonde curls staring at her reflection in the mirror.

"These are amazing," he said. His glass of wine sat forgotten at his elbow.

"You think so?"

"Yes. They're beautiful. There's so much feeling in them."

She gave a heavy sigh of relief. "I'm glad you think so."

"You were worried I wouldn't like them?"

"I don't really care if you like them or not," she said, half a smile on her face.

"I don't think your ego is so huge you wouldn't have been hurt if I'd said they were uninspired."

"I'd throw this wine in your face," she admitted.

He laughed and stood up, riding the feeling of excitement he'd obtained from the pages he'd looked at. "You're wasted doing police sketches," he said.

"It sharpens my skills," she said. "I know how to draw all sorts of different shapes and shades and facial features now, just because of the things other people have seen, and the way they describe them."

"Being able to draw upon experience is one of the most valuable skills any artist can have," Neal said with a smile.

"How much experience do you have with forgery, exactly?" she asked, her dark eyes shining at him over the rim of her glass.

Neal pretended to cradle a punch to his gut. "I'm beginning to think Peter sent you up here just to torture me."

"You've got talent," she said, indicating the Edward Hopper again. "It's wasted on forgery."

He stepped closer to her, so her hips nudged back against the table and she had to crane her head back to look at him, all that glorious hair spilling down over her shoulders.

"Say more nice things about me," he said with a grin.

"Says the man with the ego?" she asked.

"According to Peter?"

She smiled. "He likes you, but you frustrate him."

"Kind of getting the same impression here," he said softly, gesturing between them. He topped her wine up.

"I shouldn't judge you on Peter's frustrations," she admitted. "Sorry."

He gave her an easy smile. "No, I just — I didn't know he talked about me that much to people."

"Yes you did," Claudia said, swaying a little. Her arm brushed his sleeve. "Don't act like you don't like it."

They stood by the table and looked at Neal's copy of the Edward Hopper painting. "How did you get started?" she asked. "Forging art?"

"I never —" Neal began, and she interrupted.

"You know what I mean," she said. "That." She nodded at the easel.

"I guess I thought it'd improve my skill if I could directly compare my work with a copy." He shrugged. "It didn't start out that way."

"I hope it doesn't finish that way, either," Claudia said. "Everything else I've ever had to study has so much structure to it. Art is the only thing you can make up for yourself, and break the rules, and still come out with an A at the end."

"It's not always about good grades."

"You know what I mean," she said again, exasperated. "You can nail the technique but can you really call yourself an artist if all you're doing is following rules all the time, just to make it look a certain way?"

"Has Peter not mentioned to you how many rules I've broken?" Neal asked.

"Art is about _feeling_ ," Claudia said. She swept her hair back from her face, her bangles glittering and rattling down her arm.

Peter's words rang in Neal's ears: "You can do it perfectly when you want to! But every time — every damn time, Neal, you do it _the wrong way._ "

"When was the last time you painted something yourself?" Claudia asked. "Without an ulterior motive? Created something?"

Neal almost wanted to throw her own argument back in her face — all this talk about art having no rules, and no restrictions, and yet there she was giving him a lecture…

But there was an empty feeling in his gut, too. He thought about her sketches of people on the subway, and in diners, and in libraries, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd sat and watched and done the same.

He set his wine down. "Hey," he said. "Do you want to go for a walk and maybe just sit and draw? The city will be full of people tonight."

"Sappy Valentine's couples?" she asked with a smile.

He took her hand. "Yeah. We could compare technique. You with your _feelings_ ," he said with a grin.

"And you with your apparent obsession with perfection," she added.

"It's a date?" he asked hopefully.

She put her glass down next to his. "Get your sketchbook."

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> WORST SECRET EVER. Happy chocbox ♥


End file.
